touch me with blood
by thefudge is grumpy
Summary: 6x09. "That's right, Kai. Bring me back. Bring me home." Strong M.


_(originally posted on tumblr.)_

* * *

**touch me with blood**

Nights in the real world are cold.

Living in perennial May has made him forget. He has to reacquaint himself with the sensation. He feels shivers running down his body, the wind breaking on his heated skin, the cool dark breeze washing away his anger, his purpose.

He is lying on a run-down couch in a house that has one too many chandeliers. Lockwood Mansion. He can see them. Bunch of privileged kids who never had to drink milk straight out of the carton, or in his case, fish it out of the dumpster after his dad starved him for a whole week when he was seven.

But he is calm now, at peace. Relaxed.

Tyler won't do anything stupid; he cares too much about his darling, persistently a_liv_e little sister.

He has made himself necessary and wanted, not by dint of his own person, but by the lengths of his violence. He will maim, kill, strike, stab, slaughter just about anyone who doesn't understand this - and wouldn't you know it? They do.

Kai Parker is a trickster, a demigod risen from the nether, one foot in the real world, one foot in the other and since he's tasted both, you never know where he belongs and what he'll do next.

And he's never been happier. He feels immortal and free and finally powerful and -

Alone.

* * *

The chills are getting worse. Something is missing. He used to have a warmth deep down inside of him and now it's gone. He turns on his back and looks up at the ceiling, brows furrowed, lips sinking into teeth.

What the fuck is wrong with him? Stage fright? He's been wreaking havoc since the day he was born, his blood sings every time he proves them wrong, every time he takes their insignificant lives and reduces them to ashes. Why would it feel any different now?

"Giving up so soon? I'm embarrassed for you."

His body is jolted, his heart stops beating for a moment as blood surges in his ears, pounds at his eardrums. He could've sworn he heard her voice. He could've sworn he even heard that hoarse little twist she made right before saying "_you_". Those stupid smug words, thrown right back at him, like a nasty reflection.

But there is no one in the dark room with him, no presence, no higher being. Just the rustle of old furniture and the chink of glass above his head.

He closes his eyes. Screws them shut like a kid trying to forget there's a monster in the closet.

_But I'm the monster._ He laughs to himself nervously.

Even monsters need other monsters to fear.

* * *

Eventually, he swings his feet down on the floor and decides sleep will not come. Pointless to wait around to lose consciousness. Pointless to pretend the muscles on his back don't ache for more blood.

So he decides to explore the place, get a feel of it, get himself a drink, maybe even paralyze Tyler Lockwood from the neck down by inserting a screw or a fork or a piece of glass right where the spine connects with the cerebellum. He's tired of knives at this point. A whisper in his head. _She's better with them anyway._

He slips in and out of empty rooms, places once lived and now carefully obsolete. There are maybe two or three rooms that actually look occupied. This kid lives alone. He would empathize. If he had such a notion.

It takes him a good long time to find the wine cellar and get one bottle out. It's eerie how much he misses 1994. He loathes to think about it, but he misses knowing that nothing there was newer than him. Here, everything gleams.

He returns to the living room, bored and dissatisfied. He'll drink the bottle, break it into shards, and use them to scoop out the first pair of eyes he'll see next morning.

And then he stops because someone is sitting on the couch. He can see a dark head, framed by short soft hair.

"This isn't real," he blurts out, wine bottle cushioned by the carpet as it falls at his feet.

And it might as well not be, because Bonnie Bennett - Bonnie _fucking_ Bennett, the one person he can't stop thinking about, the one person he was trying to shut his eyes against - is sitting naked on the couch.

Covered in blood.

Kai opens his mouth, but doesn't inhale. It seems the air in his lungs wants to run out, leave him dry.

His eyes narrow over the shape of her red-soaked legs, crossed over her stomach, dripping blood on the parquet. He wants to expunge the image, wants to cut it into pieces and snort it until he gets an aneurysm and overdoses.

Her hands are clenched fists, gripping the quilt around her thighs, so that her back is arched and her crimson breasts point up at him with a challenge.

At first he thinks it's a seductive stance, because her green eyes shine playfully and her lips are curled into a sadistic grimace of pain and pleasure. Until he realizes she is trying to show him the dagger. The dagger with which he stabbed her before he abandoned her in 1994.

It's still lodged there, between ribs. And she is exposing it to him, showing it off like a trophy. Her breathing is belabored, but controlled. Her lips are pursed, glued together, and the only indication of her effort is the nostrils, the way they flare and widen.

He shouldn't stare at them. Shouldn't stare at her. Because if he keeps staring, he'll get the itch. The itch to quench his parched throat. The inch to lick it off. Lick off every inch of her.

"You did this," she says, looking down at herself.

Kai shudders. _I did this._

"Don't act surprised. You knew what I was," he drawls, failing to steady the smirk on his lips.

"Well, you wanted my blood. You have it," she spits in that stern Bonnie Bennett voice that reminds him of prim little school girls who fuck you over with one innocent word.

"I got enough. I got what I needed," he replies, jaw clenching from the effort to remain impervious, remain in control.

"It's never enough for you. Take it. Take it all."

Kai has walked the path of delusions, has tasted hallucinations before. It's a dream, a nightmare, a fantasy - it's whatever he wants it to be. Just not real.

And he needs the real, he can't lose himself in 1994 again.

But fuck - _fuck_ her, because he's dreaming about her, he's dreaming about Bonnie Bennett, naked and bloody, served up like a rare meat, drenched in his lust.

He takes a step forward decisively.

He's the trickster. He's the devil. He won't fall for his own machinations. He won't give into his own perverted mind.

Bonnie lets her head fall back on the edge of the couch as she sighs and parts her legs. The sound her wet thighs make chills his bones.

He lifts his hand, meaning to grab the dagger.

"Good. Take it out. Let me come home," she murmurs, eyes half-closed.

Kai's hand hesitates. She's getting what she wants, he's letting her out.

_No._

He removes his hand, but stands rooted to the spot, unable to walk away, unable to act scared. He's not a coward. He won't run. Touching her would be her victory.

But he resists. He is strong. Undefeated.

She lifts her head and squints at him. Bites her lip. She has that misty-eyed look, the one she used to get whenever Damon did something wrong.

When her teeth release her lip, it's swollen, bruised, hungry.

"You know, you should've listened to me. We would've split the world in half. We wouldn't have been in each other's way. My half. Your half. Instead, you made me do this. Made me come here to ruin your night."

Kai runs a hand over his hair and laughs a shallow laugh.

"Oh, Bon, you don't give yourself enough credit. You couldn't ruin my night. You're a splash of color. _Literally."_ Red everywhere, red under heavy breasts, red under her lips, dark bloody trailing down her hips like honey.

He licks his lips.

"I _do_ love a corpse," he adds in that mock-droll way of his, but it loses edge when he swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing.

Bonnie tilts her head and smiles, the first genuine smile of the night. That sweet pancake smile.

"I'm not dead. I'm burning up," she replies, one hand going to her neck, smearing the blood gently, leaving fingerprints in her wake.

He bites his tongue, suppresses a groan. Because he wants his fingerprints on her. To see little white circles diving into a sea of red. Flesh like metal, firm and wet under his palms.

_Fight it. Fight it. Fight it._

"I'm sick. I have a fever. I'm tired," she mumbles, massaging her neck, red trickling down in waves. "Help me clean up."

Nights in the real world are cold. But he is burning up faster than her.

She gets up all at once from the couch, pushing herself forward like a hurricane.

He falls on his knees.

Simply collapses, like he was meant to be there, underneath her, from the beginning, while drops of her blood fall on his face.

He grins all of a sudden, illuminated.

He's always wanted to pray to something, always wanted to bend the knee to a higher authority. He doesn't want to fuck the goddess. He wants the goddess to fuck him.

He grabs one leg fervently and his lips are on the skin above her tibia, crossing over to the femur, his tongue attacking and licking and drinking up until his throat fills up - the blood, the blood, the _blood_ gushing out of her into him. His nostrils are red. He can't breathe.

He thinks, _maybe Damon is lucky to be a vampire_. Maybe this shit doesn't taste so bad. No, it tastes glorious when it's hers.

Bonnie sighs contently, giving him access to the inside of her thigh. She doesn't lean towards him. He must bury himself deeper in her.

His fingers grip her calves, leave behind those yearned for fingerprints. A pitter-patter of small, hungry animals.

His tongue is numb, but he laps at the river despondently, brows knitted in absolute concentration, desire coursing through him, the same desire he got when his siblings were trembling under a poorly made-up bed.

This is the thrill of the kill. She moans softly, coyly, so contradictory to her current position.

It's the baseball bat, bashing their brains out, he can feel it in his mouth, can taste every last bit of gore inside of her.

Is it wrong how much he wants to keep her above him?

He grips and squeezes and clenches his fingers desperately around her hips, her waist, her ass, like there's not enough of her, like he wants to be enveloped completely.

He pulls one bloody leg over his shoulder.

He buries his nose inside her mound.

It's his father lying in a pool of his own blood. It's his father's fear frozen on his blue lips. It's his foot stomping his remains. It's Bonnie digging one hand into his scalp.

He bites into the tender flesh. His tongue is still drinking, has been made to drink from her, has no other use. And he parts her folds with his teeth and twists them gently before he consumes them, growling into her core.

It's the _slam! slam! slam!_ of his own brains against the cold hard ground.

"Kai," she breathes out in a mewl.

His tongue swirls around her clit, his canines flicking the skin, making it swollen, hard and unyielding. Metal under his wet palms. What he wants, what he needs.

"Kai," she moans again.

She's the twisted short-circuit in his brain, the one telling him to be nice and open his mouth and get the reward. The one telling him to obey. The one telling him to call her brave and kind. The one whispering _you want to be brave and kind and twisted and evil and you want her to be brave and kind and twisted and evil with you._

He can feel his tongue pulsing in the rhythm of her own heartbeat, can feel her clenching around him -

_"Kai!"_

Suddenly, she wrenches his head away. She dips her fingers under his chin, demanding his attention. He looks up, lost, so lost and so confused, yet so willing. His puppy dog eyes are warm and hateful and loving.

"I said clean me."

She gestures to the rest of her body.

But there is one problem. The dagger jabbed inside her stomach, trapped there by his own insatiable appetite. His tongue can't override it.

He stares at it for a good long minute, hands still gripping her to him, pressing down on her bones without mercy.

He clicks his jaw.

He puts his hand on the hilt and yanks hard with one swift move.

It rips out of her with a scream, a final moan that sends her over the edge and she dips her head back and opens her mouth and he watches her in agony, mesmerized and convinced that he has made a mistake. But he doesn't care. Because _he_ did that. He made her come.

The dagger falls between them, already forgotten.

He presses his lips over the fresh old wound and licks and kisses tenderly.

Bonnie laughs warmly and caresses his forehead.

"That's right, Kai. Bring me back. Bring me home."

* * *

He wakes up with a terrifying jolt, blood in his mouth. He's bitten so hard into his lips he can almost taste his skull. He looks at the empty ceiling, eyes wide with horror. And then he smirks. He smirks with lust and despair because he has a hard-on and the only thing he can think about is the dark red sea on her thighs.

* * *

She wakes up with a terrifying jolt, her throat dry, her thighs clenched together, her core soaked to the bone. Bonnie looks up at the burnt ashes of a Christmas tree and shudders because the red tinsel is lying on the ground like a river of blood.

* * *

Nights in the real world are cold. He needs her to keep warm.


End file.
